
Around 4:10 p.m. yesterday, I crossed the 50,000 word mark of the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) competition. During the entire month of November (read: 30 days), a writer is charged with the task of producing an extended work of fiction (something that resembles a novel/novella), and if he/she accomplishes that feat, he/she is considered a winner (the prize being more like a symbolic reward for hard work than a financial award from a straight-up battle with other writers). Having been officially declared a NaNoWriMo winner, I must say that the experience was truly more involved than I had originally anticipated.
It's easy to wake up on a morning in mid-October thinking that it's not so bad to write 1,667 words a day. I believed that it would be a breeze. Boy was I wrong! After week one, things started to slow down dramatically in my output and my writing became more jagged, despite my constant need to refer to the handbook for the month (No Plot? No Problem). I had trouble silencing the "inner critic" in me that wanted to fix misspelled words and grammatical errors, errors in plot construction, and even errors in character references. Finally, I just started highlighting what I would fix on my rewrite of the manuscript. Ignoring those glowing yellow paragraphs, I pushed ahead. When I got within earshot of the finish line, I wondered why I had decided to write a story that required so much emotional interaction on the part of the characters. It seemed like every exasperation of my characters became an exasperation from my own tired writing soul. I grunted and moaned, trying to ignore the word count before finally looking down and seeing that my manuscript had nearly gone one hundred words past the goal of 50,000.
Now that I have finished the contest, I am left to look at this mass of words, much in the way a sculptor would look at a block of clay: searching to find the piece of art within the massive clump of material. The writer in me slung the words to get the mound of clay into existence, but the artist in me must excavate the beauty of the true novel within.
That will be what I do next, once I have swept the confetti from the floor of my office. :-)





